


What We Have Here

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Destiny, Five Plus One, M/M, Reincarnation, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: A remix of concertigrossi’s 5 + 1 “Failure to Communicate,” written for Selenay’s request for a subverted locked in trope. Written for the C/C Remix 2018.No locks or cells or enemies can stop them from finding each other.





	What We Have Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [concertigrossi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertigrossi/gifts), [Selenay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Failure To Communicate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078308) by [concertigrossi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertigrossi/pseuds/concertigrossi). 



A remix of concertgrossi’s 5 + 1 “Failure to Communicate,” written for Selenay’s request for a subverted locked in trope. 

 

Lindisfarne, Northumberland, 829 AD

 

The kirk was on fire, red-orange flames casting shadows on the village below. People ran all directions, fleeing towards the woods and away from the longboats that were pulled up on the sand. Screams echoed over the sound of the waves, the invaders’ faces hidden under helmets, monsters who killed without thought for age or gender. 

Clinton dodged behind the rock wall, going the opposite direction as the others, determined to make it to the church and little cottages tucked behind. He’d stayed out late hunting, the paths so well-known that he needed no light, returning to find the Vikings already on their shore. Straight away, he dropped his brace of conies; he’d seen the aftermath of other attacks, the blackened husks of buildings and lines of bodies. Nothing was sacred, not even the priests or the holy relics. 

He crawled up the small henge, using shadows to hide; the other side, however, was a different story. A crowd of warriors banged on the front door of the church, their shouts unintelligible but intent plain. There was nothing for it but to wait until no one was looking then dash across the open space, crouching as low as possible, praying to Herne to keep him safe and Jesus to protect his steps. He made it to the first building, working his way to the apothecary in the middle. 

The door was barred; he tapped on it and whispered, “It’s me.” 

As soon as a crack appeared, he squeezed in; Brother Philip lowered the bar and grasped him by the shoulders, pulling him into a fierce hug that lasted only a few seconds. 

“You should have fled,” Philip argued as Clinton peered around the thin curtain on the window. 

“We have to go around back, get to the forest.” Clinton reached for the door handle. “Stay close and we’ll make it.” 

“The manuscript.” Philip pulled a wrapped bundle from under the table. “I was going to bury it.” 

“Here.” Clinton shoved it in his pack and tightened the straps. “Whatever happens, don’t stop running, understand?” 

For a second, their hands met, the tiniest touch that spoke of what they could never say. Then Clinton opened the door and they ran. 

 

The Carpathian Mountains, 1274 AD

 

“The Great Kubali Khan gives and takes as he wishes,” their interpreter offered. “Your men are weak and easily defeated; what could you offer to him that is worth his time?” 

Philip, second son of the Earl of Sussex, twisted his wrists, testing the strength of the rope that bound him; there was no give at all. For a moment, he thought about dying here, after they’d come so far on their quest to find the Far East, to open trade routes and learn about other peoples. But then he banished any regret; he’d gotten far more from this trip than he’d ever dreamed. 

“I offer him the riches of the West, our knowledge,” Marco said, the only one of them not tied up. “He knows my father, Niccolo Polo; he will want to speak with me.” 

As the Mongol translated Marco’s plea, Philip watched the eyes of the tribal leader, trying to gauge what he would do. So far, they’d run into nothing but a penchant for violence, not at all like the stories Niccolo liked to tell. 

“He will not be the one who brings foreigners to the Kahn,” the interpreter said. “Better to kill you than take the chance.” 

“Tell him I’ll best his finest warrior in one-on-one combat,” Clint spoke suddenly. “If I win, he takes us to the Khan.” 

“What are you doing?” Philip hissed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

Clint just flashed him a cocky grin. From the moment they’d hired the down-on-his-luck man to guide them into Mongol territory, Philip had been completely at the mercy of his charm and handsome face. He couldn’t say no to anything Clint asked, not that he wanted to. 

“I’ve got this, don’t worry,” Clint replied. 

“You would stand for the honor of your party?” the interpreter asked. The leader rattled on for a good two minutes before the interpreter said, “Challenge is accepted. Sukh will meet you on the field of your choice.” 

Sukh stood, a large shaggy man with a big axe strapped to his back. 

“Give me my bow,” Clint said. “And my horse. I’ve got a show to put on.” 

 

The Tower of London, Early August, 1483 AD

 

Clint slipped up the narrow stairs, footfalls silent on the worn stone. He’d ripped the rose patch from his sleeve and covered his face with a mask, hiding from the Wardens and the guards as he broke in. The final straw, that’s what this was, in a decade of madness and violence. He drew the line at the thought of these two deaths. 

A single scuff of boot and Clint whirled, dagger at the ready, prepared to fight. A second masked figure paused at the landing above, hand on the knob of the heavy wooden door. Moonlight filtered through the arrow slit in the thick wall; slowly, the man reached up and pulled down the fabric that covered his face. 

“If you’re here to kill them …” Philip, son of Coul, a retainer of the House of Lancaster, began to say. 

“I’m not.” Clint Barton, retainer of the House of York, drew off his mask. “The order has been given; I’m here to stop it.” 

They should have been knights, strong men in service to their Lords; once they were on their way to being just that, companions and maybe something more. But then Henry IV deposed Richard II and now Richard III had imprisoned his young nephews, the true heirs to the throne. 

“They’ll never be safe in England.” Philip lowered his weapon. “Someone will use them as a weapon to rally troops.” 

“I know someone; she’ll take them far away from here, let them grow up, safe.” Clint hadn’t dare hoped he’d have the chance but with Philip’s help … “But they’ll know they’re gone.” 

“The Warden is sympathetic; the boys are close in age to his own children. He knows where to find some bodies,” Philip said. 

“We leave them in bed, so whoever comes …” 

“...thinks someone already killed them.” 

Clint smiled; for the first time in a long time he felt a glimmer of hope. “They know me; I’ll get them to open the door.” 

 

20 Nautical Miles East of Nassau, 1721 AD

 

Boots clattered down the wooden stairs from the main deck. First a pair of strong thighs encased in leather appeared followed by a broad chest in a white shirt. Tanned face, sunkissed hair, piercing eyes … Clint Barton, the famous pirate called Hawkeye, crossed the uneven boards and stopped in front of the cell. 

“Phil Coulson, Captain of the fastest frigate in the East Indies fleet.” Barton looked Phil up and down, from his missing boot to the new scar on his cheek. “Never thought I’d see you sitting in my brig.” 

His shoulder ached, a splinter was wedged in his left palm, and his mouth was dry; hands manacled behind him, chains connected to the bars, Phil couldn’t rise from his knees or sit completely down. 

“Let’s call this a bad day,” he answered. 

Humor danced in the blue-grey depths. “I’d say. From what I saw, you were in pretty much the same situation on your own ship.” 

With a tip of his head, Phil acknowledged the truth of the situation. “Maybe bad isn’t the right word.” 

“Indeed.” Barton’s laugh echoed in the hold. “Mutinies are never fun.” 

The ship creaked around them, rising and falling in rhythm with the sea. Phil had spent his whole life onboard a ship; he barely noticed the minute changes in balance needed to stay upright. 

“It seems I’m without employment at the moment.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought. He’d burned his bridges and there was no going back. Besides, from what he’d heard, he might actually have a shot. “Would you be hiring? I’ve a fair amount of experience with knots and rope.” 

“Oh, you do, do you?” Barton did another perusal, a slow burn that followed the breadth of Phil’s shoulders to his chest and then his thighs. He lingered on the bulge in Phil’s tight leather pants. “You finally realize that you were working for devils, did you? Thought it was only a matter of time; you’re too upstanding to be part of their plans.” 

Phil sighed. “Did everyone know but me?” 

“Just those of us they’ve burned.” Barton lifted the ring of keys from a peg on the wall. “Tasha’s invited you to dine with us; better use that charm on her.” 

Opening the door, Barton started unlocking the chains. Up close, he smelled of wood smoke, sweat, and the faintest hint of orange. 

“Much as I’m honored to meet the famed Black Widow, I’d rather save it for you.” 

Barton pulled back, search Phil’s face for a few seconds, then a sexy smile curved across his face. “I just might enjoy that.”

 

Abydos, Egypt, 1902 AD

 

“It’s going to …” 

“Watch out!”

“Phil!” 

Rocks tumbled, sand slithered into the cracks and the antichamber went dark. 

Clint slowly blinked the grit from his eyes and gently lifted his head; he clenched his fists into Phil’s shirt, holding him close, protecting him with his body. Not a glimmer of light, just unrelenting black. 

“Lantern.” Phil coughed, turning his head away. “By my bag. Matches in the pocket. If it’s not smashed.” 

Moved slowly, Clint crawled over the jumble of ceiling, wall, floor, and wooden beams that had given way. “That damn sandstorm yesterday. I should have double checked the supports.” 

“Not your fault,” Phil said. “Ground here is unstable; Hilda told us that from the beginning.” 

“Either that or old Seti doesn’t want to give up his secrets.” Clint imagined the chamber in his mind, drawing on his eidetic memory as he eased over a chunk of sandstone. His fingers touched something soft; the flap was unbuckled and he found the tin of matches easily. Scratching one across the rock, he raised it up and saw the lantern on its side, but thankfully okay. 

By the time light was filtering through the space, Phil was sitting up, rubbing his head. “I’m beginning to believe this is a doomed endeavor.” 

“Seems to be my lot in life.” Clint sighed as he stood, turning the lantern to survey the damage. “I thought maybe this expedition would break the pattern. Hilda and Margaret took a chance on me and Natasha; we’re not exactly the trustworthy kind.” 

Truth was, if it hadn’t been for Natasha barrelling into his life, he’d have already died penniless and hungry in a back alley. Scamming English lords and ladies by selling fake antiquities had kept them feed and paid for a place to stay. Hilda Petri had realized having someone who knew the underbelly of the trade gave her an advantage. 

“Stop that.” Phil pushed himself up. “You’re worth ten times any one of those preening so-called Egyptologist who are just here because they’re bored.”

Heat rose in his cheeks; he didn’t know what to say when Phil complimented him. If he opened his mouth, he might blurt out exactly what he felt and that way lay catastrophe. Broaching the subject was dangerous; add that Phil was a peer of the realm and Clint was best off staying silent.

“You’re the one they should listen to,” Clint said, resting the lantern on a flat rock high up in the pile. “They should put you in charge at the Cairo Museum, let you separate out the scholars from the looters. So much history gone to vanity.”

Phil closed the short distance and circled Clint’s wrist with his fingers. Clint’s heart skipped a beat as Phil’s thumb brushed over his pulse. 

“What I meant to say is that you’re important. Even if we have to abandon this site, I found what I was looking.” 

Clint ducked his head, but Phil raised his chin and made him look him in the eyes. There was no lie in those intense depths, just honesty. 

“If we don’t make it out of here …” Phil began.

“We will,” Clint cut in. 

“If we don’t,” Phil repeated, “I know it’s a risk but I have to .. “

He leaned in and then his lips pressed to Clint’s, dry, chapped, and oh so very perfect. 

The flame flickered once, twice, then again. A tiny shift in the rocks and rays from the sun bounced off the far wall. 

“You alive in there, gentlemen?” Natasha shouted through the hole.. 

“Yes.” Clint squeezed Phil’s hand and gave him another quick kiss. “Alive and well.”

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, somewhere over the city of New York, May 4, 2012 AD

 

Phil was dying. He knew it the way he’d known where to find Loki and understood that his death would be the catalyst they needed. When the spear had pierced his chest, it had been strangely painless, almost a certainty that this was his destiny. No origin story for him; his role was to be the sacrifice that forces the hero to become what he was always meant to be. And he was okay with that. It was more than he could ask for, really. Phil Coulson, comic book nerd, collector of Captain America memorabilia, Mr. Average guy … he was important. In the strange place between tick and tock, Nick leaning over him, the room fading, the gun warm in his hands, he started to let go, to accept his fate. 

Then a door opened in his mind and images flooded into his consciousness. Beautiful illustrations on vellum. Delicate silks wrapped around muscles. An ornate hilt on sword. Sunset at sea. Sand whipping in the wind. Smells assaulted him, long forgotten textures. Coarse brown wool, the mountains after the rain, velvet tunics, sea salt, and indentions carved in stone. He remembered feelings of loss and love, hope and failure. 

And at the center of it all, in every moment, was Clint Barton. Bleached out hair, bow in hand, clad in leather or lace or simple linen. Arguing, fighting, kissing, loving. Always. 

The mind stone’s energy lingered in the darkness; Phil reached out and grabbed the fiery tendril, singeing his very soul as he held on. He fought, he struggled, he refused to go. 

Clint needed him, and he wasn’t going to let him down. 

 

Ceti Alpha, Planet 7992.843, Gamma Quadrant, 2243 AD

 

“Oh, God.” Clint flopped down on Phil’s chest. A bead of sweat rolled off his nose as he heaved out a long breath. “We need a vacation. A real one, not a couple days in quarantine with Bruce monitoring our vitals.”

Phil chuckled, his arms circling Clint’s waist and holding him tight. “Somewhere with a beach and fruity little drinks.” 

With a groan, Clint felt the chills run up his spine; he shivered despite the warm temperature in the small room. “Damn Tony and his little side deals. Last time I got beat up and now experimental sex pollen? I always get the short end of the stick.”

“I reminded the Captain of that very thing before we headed down,” Phil replied. “He’s got stars in his eyes when Tony’s in the room. Doesn’t hear a damn thing Tony says. Just stares at his ass.” 

“Those two need to fuck each other and get it over with.” Clint sighed. “You’re the second-in-command; you should get a say.” 

“Pretty sure I’m biased since I’m married to the best pilot in the galaxy.” Phil wiggled his hips, earning a moan from Clint. “At least we were both sprayed; got us alone together for the first time since ... “

“... the job on Prima Flora. That little inn we snuck off to, had at least 8 hours …” Clint nuzzled under Phil’s ear. “Remember?”

“That’s when we …” Phil bit his lip as Clint nipped at his earlobe. 

“Un huh,” Clint murmured, kissing his way along Phil’s jaw. “Wanna do it again?”

Phil dipped his head, caught Clint’s mouth in a kiss, and they stopped talking.


End file.
